5 Times Holmes 'Borrowed' Watson's Clothes
by Jennistar1
Summary: Another 5 times fic because I adore them! Holmes is so naughty! Enjoy! Eventual slash...
1. Chapter 1

**A new '5 times' fic! I haven't forgotten the last chapter of my previous '5 times' fic I promise, it is in the works. Meanwhile, do enjoy this!**

1. As a disguise

Watson was momentarily thrown when an old and bleeding beggar limped through the door of his rooms in Baker Street at the untimely stroke of midnight, but when the beggar immediately snapped, "Don't just stand there, Watson, heal me like a good doctor should do!" and the light revealed the eyes to belong to a certain roommate of his, his worries dissipated.

He rolled his eyes and reached for his medical bag - in the five weeks he had lived with Holmes, he had had to use his medical expertise on him 21 times. He was considering making the man pay for the supply of bandages he used up.

"I hope that you at least got your man," he commented, pouring a bowl of water, then sitting the wincing Holmes down in his seat and removing the his ash grey wig to reveal Holmes's own unruly mop of black hair.

Holmes grinned brightly through his smeared make up. "Just."

"Hmm." Watson sat down opposite his patient and surveyed the damage. A large knock to the head, possible concussion then, a black eye, and a rather nasty gash on the right arm. He decided the arm needed the quickest attention and dipped a cloth into the water beside him, reaching for Holmes's arm as he did so.

He stopped. And then frowned.

"Holmes, are you wearing _my_ shirt?"

The damned man was obviously too concussed to play the innocence game, because his eyes immediately glazed over with guilt and his murmur of "Who, me?" was loaded with sudden nervousness.

Watson glared venomously at his victim.

"Yes, _you._" He motioned to the dirtied cuffs. "Those are the cuffs of my _new_ shirt - they have the symbol of the tailor on them - _and_ the whole thing is far more baggy than your usual attire." He plucked at the torn front of the offending shirt.

Holmes flashed him a tentative smile.

"My, my, Watson, you are becoming a rather excellent logician already!"

Watson ignored the carefully placed compliment.

"This is my shirt. And it's _new_. And now look at it!"

Holmes glanced down at the sad remains of the shirt.

"I was rushed and it was the first at hand?" he ventured.

Watson hurled the wet cloth into Holmes's face.

"You can clean up your own mess. And _don't_ steal my things again!"

Out of the rooms he stormed without a word more, banging the door as hard as possible on his way.

Holmes grinned to himself, still flushed with the previous thrill of the chase, and continued where Watson had left off, whistling as loudly as possible as he bathed his arm, just to be that more annoying.

He could foresee many more arguments of this ilk on the horizon. Especially when Watson found out what Holmes had done to his new waistcoat.

…_Wonderful!_

**Reviews are desired, loved and stroked obsessively.**


	2. Chapter 2

**New chapter! Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

**I don't own the characters, much to my everlasting misery...  
**

2. On loan

"What do you think?"

A rather more immaculate Holmes than usual appeared in their living room, looking for once socially presentable but also rather nervous about this fact.

Watson flicked down a corner of his newspaper and peered at Holmes over it.

"Occasion?"

Holmes twisted his mouth in a little moue of annoyance at the remembrance.

"That damn Duke of Hungary is having a dinner party to celebrate the return of his priceless diamond coronet and since I was of _course _the main protagonist in its rather _daring _recovery, he has invited me as guest of honour."

Watson frowned.

"I thought you hated those things."

"I do." Holmes was looking more nervous with each passing second. "But he did offer a large amount for my appearance, and I am rather low on my half of the rent this month…" He didn't mention that this was because he had been skulking in his rooms the two months prior to the appearance of the case.

"Mmm." Watson laid aside his paper and frowned at Holmes thoughtfully, who squirmed under the attention but bore it as gracefully as possible - Watson was, after all, much better at this sort of thing than he, since he actually had at least a vague idea of what social norms were.

"The hair is acceptable," declared Watson finally. Holmes patted his flattened down mop ruefully - yet another reason why he hated these parties. But then Watson frowned again.

"And yet there's still something wrong…twirl for me."

Holmes stared at his roommate incredulously.

"I'm going to a dinner party, Watson, not appearing in a ballet!"

"Just do it," snapped Watson.

At the peak of humiliation, Holmes obediently shuffled around in a circle. He did so as quickly as possible, but apparently that was all Watson needed, for he snapped his fingers triumphantly.

"Got it!" He stood up. "Stay right there," he commanded his model, then left the room, returning a moment later with one of his own shirts in his hand.

"Try this on," he ordered.

Deciding it could not get much worse, Holmes grudgingly obeyed, discarding his own shirt and donning Watson's with relative ease. It was looser, and the material was cool on his skin, and immediately he felt a little more confident.

"Mmm, better," Watson mused, and leaned forward to adjust the collar around Holmes's neck and button his cuffs together. Holmes stood as still as a statue, trying to ignore how the touch of Watson's fingers on his neck made his heart hammer.

"Perfect," Watson announced at last, and smiled at him. They were quite dreadfully too close, Holmes thought suddenly, a lump in his throat, and Watson's hand was still on his shoulder, the tips of his fingers still brushing against his neck. Didn't Watson realise what he was doing to him, being this _close_…?

Holmes managed a weak smile in return, and breathed a silent sigh of part disappointment and part relief when Watson turned away to his chair and disappeared behind his newspaper again.

"Best of luck, old boy," he said distractedly, turning a page.

Despondently, Holmes left.

* * *

He was having a small silent moment of renewed panic outside the hotel in which the party was situated when he first smelled it. A faint but unmistakeable scent, musky and unerringly familiar, which managed to soothe his shattered nerves a little and gave Holmes enough confidence to enter the hotel lobby. By the time he had reached the hall from where the terrible sounds of a party in full swing were echoing, he realised what it was.

It was Watson's smell - one of those smells that was so common around a person that it was only when it was smelled without the person actually being there that it became evident that it was their smell at all. Holmes took an experimental sniff of Watson's shirt, and was immediately infused with images of the smell's owner, and for a moment all he wished for was to be back in Baker Street with Watson, annoying him with his violin or debating some obscure criminal subject enthusiastically, not stuck in a dark hall just about to enter what sounded like the Party From Hell. He wanted to be sitting in his chair, watching Watson as he read, examining the way that the candlelight flickered a golden-orange halo around his head, noting how his eyes would change colour depending on how he was sitting, scrutinising his movements, from the twitch of his little finger to the way he moved through the room. Still, Holmes thought, closing his eyes and inhaling the shirt's scent more deeply, when this was all over, he could go back to Baker Street, and Watson would be there, and he could do all of those things, and all would be well. That life was not going to go anywhere.

With renewed confidence, he entered the hall.

* * *

"Good party?" Watson inquired sarcastically when Holmes burst drunkenly into their rooms at one o'clock in the morning, jerking Watson out of his doze by the fire.

"Trés excellent, mon ami!" Holmes cheered, and collapsed merrily into the chair opposite, beaming at Watson, who couldn't help but grin back.

"Looks like my shirt helped," he observed.

Holmes sat back in the chair and closed his eyes.

"Better than you'd know, dear boy," he said softly, and fell silent, a small smile still stretched across his face.

**Thank you for reading! Please review, if you do I will give you my first-born!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A new chapter! Thank you to all who have taken the time to review, it always makes my day to read them and to know people like what I'm doing! This chapter is short and sweet, it does get longer next time.  
**

**I do not own Holmes or Watson...at least, not YET...;)  
**

3. For Warmth

Sometimes, Holmes thought, huddling into his annoyingly too thin shirt miserably, corpses had no idea of propriety. Take for example, one of them just _had_ to die in the middle of London's greatest snowstorm for ten years and get buried under three feet of snow on the very day Holmes had forgotten his coat, didn't they?

Grumpily, he clutched at his arms and stamped at the snow a bit, watching the police officers digging away at the drift where the corpse was meant to be buried. If they took much longer, Holmes was going to be as blue and stiff as their victim. He glared at the snowdrift as if that would make it melt faster.

"Holmes, where's your coat?" snapped a petulant voice behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to find Watson entering the crime scene, sensibly clad in his great overcoat, his hair lightly covered in the fresh fall of snow that was beginning to flutter out of the sky.

"Forgot it in the excitement," Holmes tried to say offhandedly, but the chatter of his teeth ruined the effect. Watson raised his eyebrows. Holmes turned back to the snowdrift. His fingers were going numb; he stuffed them under his armpits and willed his mind to think of warm things.

For a moment he thought that either it had worked or he had finally caught hypothermia, because he was suddenly aware of a pleasant warmth encompassing him from behind. Then he looked around and realised that the source of the warmth was in fact in the form of Watson's overcoat; Watson had unbuttoned it and wrapped it around the both of them, his long arms crossing Holmes's chest to keep it in place.

"Enough room for two," he said, his moustache tickling Holmes's ear. Holmes had to dig his nails into his sides to stop himself from turning his head, forgetting his strict orders to himself and kissing Watson then and there, in front of everyone. He closed his eyes instead and leaned backwards into Watson's warmth, inhaling his scent as if this, too, could warm him. His fingers burned with new life. He curled his head into Watson's shoulder and listened to the steady heartbeat of his just as steady friend, and thought coherently for the first time that morning about the crime in front of them.

By the time the police had dug the corpse out, Holmes was fully warmed, had already solved the entire crime, and felt more sorry for the corpse than he had done previously. If only they had had a Watson to warm them, he thought, (as he unveiled the crime dramatically to the astonished police and Watson smiled behind him) they would be as alive as he now felt.

**Please R & R! Thanks!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 up! I hope you enjoy it, and thank you to everyone who has been reviewing, your comments really make my day :).**

**I don't own the characters!  
**

4. As a mistake

Holmes knew before he even opened his eyes that he was not in his bed. He knew he was not even in his room, and listed the reasons why in his head. Firstly, it was too warm - his room was always cold in the mornings because it had a draught. Secondly, the sound of the traffic on Baker Street was coming from the wrong direction. And thirdly, he could feel an arm lying on his chest that was not his.

He had a nagging idea, however, that he knew exactly where he was.

The hesitant opening of his eyes was accompanied with a blast of pain, as morning sunlight flooded relentlessly into his head and brought with it memories of just how much he had had to drink the previous night. He closed his eyes again with a muffled groan.

The arm on his chest twitched. Forgetting the pain, Holmes reopened his eyes and glanced quickly over at the other side of the bed, where the owner of the arm lay, fast asleep and cuddled up to his shoulder.

It was Watson - of _course_ it was Watson, and a naked Watson at that, and he was in Watson's room, in his bed, and good _lord_ he was in trouble now - !

He gulped and looked up at the whitewashed ceiling instead, and tried to piece together bits of his memory of the night.

They had solved a case, an important and quite difficult one, and they had gone out to celebrate, and, thanks to a rather large payment from Holmes's client, had managed to see their way into becoming _extremely _intoxicated…and then, after the memory of the seventh drink, Holmes's mind went fuzzy and all he could remember were odd details; the way Watson's lips had glistened in the half-light after he had kissed them, the banging of the door when they had finally stumbled together into 221B, the scrape of the wall against his back when Watson had pushed him there, the feel of hands, soft, steady, gliding down his body, and murmured extracts, and the removing of clothes and - oh _god _-

He glanced once more over at the slumbering Watson, guiltily. The damned man looked as innocent and unthinkably untouchable as he had the previous day - there was not a mark on him to show what they had done. Holmes vaguely remembered them attempting to clean themselves up after the deed. He dug his toes into the sheets and thought.

It was all his fault. Watson had been more drunk than him, and yet _Holmes_ had been the one taking the advantage. All those strict words, those late-night lectures to himself - where had they gone? They had abandoned him when he needed them the most, and now he had done the unthinkable - to uptight, proper, quietly religious Watson. My god! He would never forgive Holmes. He would wake up soon, and realise what had happened - although he probably wouldn't remember it - and then he would leave, and Holmes would be left alone, and that couldn't happen because he _needed_ Watson, he was absolutely lost without him, and the thought of losing his friendship was too much, far too much to bear.

There had to be a way. He had to do _something._

He looked over at Watson. Watson, Watson. The sleeping, untouched Watson…

An idea occurred, almost making him lunge out of bed. How much alcohol had Watson consumed last night? More than Holmes, and Holmes had had quite enough. Plus Watson was a surprising lightweight when it came to holding his liquor. There was - Holmes calculated it - if Watson had had ten - no, eleven - drinks, then there was around an eight-five percent chance that he would remember nothing, and that whatever memories _were_ left would seem vague and dream-like to him. And since there were no physical marks, just the presence of Holmes lying in his bed…

If Holmes left, and pretended nothing had happened, that he had slept in his own bed…well, then Watson would be none the wiser. And things would continue as if this had never happened. Which it _shouldn't_ have in the first place. If he crept out now, the whole episode could be forgotten…

Of course, he would feel guilty about lying to the old boy. But then, he felt guiltier about what he had done…

His mind was made up. Very gently, he took Watson's arm and shifted it off his chest and onto the pillow, then slowly extracted himself from the bed. He was just slinking to the door when an awful realisation struck him. His _clothes_. He certainly wasn't wearing them; they were scattered all over the room instead - even his hat, he noticed, was tastefully perched on top of the lampshade.

As silently as possible, he retrieved his clothes from their various locations, counted them to make sure they were all there, then fled noiselessly across the hallway and into his own rooms without a backward glance, in case it made his determination waver. Once there, he dressed himself in his bundled clothes quickly, swept his many experiments off his bed, ruffled up the bedclothes to look as though he had slept there, then perched himself in his usual chair, opened the newspaper, and waited.

It was a long wait. Breakfast came and went, delivered by Mrs Hudson. Holmes chewed nervously on his pipe and pretended to read the newspaper again. His mind was constantly plagued by memories of the previous night - words he had said, cries Watson had cried, the feel of his lips, his fingers - it was all far too aggravatingly arousing, and nothing he could do would make him _forget._

He glared at the newspaper again, and as he did so, the door opened and Watson entered. He was freshly washed and dressed, and so it was only the dark circles under his eyes and the rather unkempt hair that told of his heavy antics the previous night.

The important thing, Holmes told himself, was to act completely naturally. Don't look up from the newspaper. Take a slice of toast. Now speak _calmly._

"Up rather late, aren't we, Watson?"

"Holmes," said Watson.

Nonchalance not working. Put plan in action.

"Not that I blame you after our little drinking session. Do you remember anything? I don't. It all became a bit of a blur after that last pub!"

"Holmes."

"And then here I was, asleep in my own bed, no idea how I got there. In my own bed, I mean. But I managed to put my experiments away neatly despite the fact I could probably hardly walk, how odd. I mean, before I slept. Last night. In my own bed."

"Holmes."

Holmes desperately cast around for more to say.

"May I surmise from your late appearance to breakfast that you slept well?"

"_Holmes._"

Holmes glanced up guiltily from his newspaper.

Watson held up a white shirt.

"You took the wrong shirt this morning. You're wearing mine. This is yours."

Holmes's stomach squeezed tightly. He glanced down at the shirt he was wearing, noting - too late - the tidy collar, the extra looseness, the maker's symbol on the cuffs. The smell of ale coming from it had disguised the smell of Watson, and he had been too intent on getting out of the room to even think of checking…damn it, what kind of detective was he to miss _that?_ And now Watson knew everything…and knew that he had tried to lie about it…

"Oh," he said. He looked up at Watson, but the man was poker-faced, neatly locking his emotions away as only Watson could do.

"Sorry," Holmes said, trying to make the apology sound meaningful enough to cover everything that had happened from when they had started drinking, but instead only succeeding in making it sound offhand and flippant. Damn it doubly!

He reached for the buttons of the shirt, but Watson coughed loudly and turned slightly away, halting him. Holmes glanced up at him.

"You can…you can give it back tomorrow," Watson said faintly. Holmes noticed that the tips of his ears were red.

"Oh," he said again. He seemed to have become tongue-tied. "All right. Erm. Thank you."

Watson nodded once, tightly, still not looking around.

"I have patients to see," he said quickly, and all but fled the room, leaving Holmes's shirt on his chair to glare at him accusingly.

Holmes waited, and it was only when he heard the bang of the front door that he let himself slump in the chair and drop the newspaper on his face with a loud groan.

**R & R please! Next chapter is the last chapter!**


	5. Chapter 5

**NB: Last chapter! (sob) …In which Watson is a dick and Holmes is saddened.**

**The chapter was inspired by this lovely picture: http:/ .com/ starjenni/ pic/ 000038hx/**

**Just delete the spaces in between…I do hope you can see it...if you have livejournal you should be able to! (is extremely useless at working anything like the internet)**

**Anyway…on to the fic!**

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5. Forgotten

It had been a perfect night, a night like that of the old days, starting with dinner, going onto the opera and culminating in brandy at Baker Street, and an enthusiastic reminiscing of one of their older cases. And then Watson had to spoil it all.

"I'd better be going," he said suddenly, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. Holmes looked at it too - it had just struck quarter past ten.

"It's still early," he protested. "And you've only been here five minutes…" He was aware of a whiny tone entering his voice and silenced himself, instead glancing over to where Watson was sitting on the old leather sofa. He was shifting uncomfortably, suddenly looking out of place in a room that was in reality nothing without him.

"Yes…but I should go." He shifted again and looked down at his brandy, contemplating something. Holmes with a sense of increasing foreboding, sipping at his own glass. Finally Watson glanced up at him.

"I suppose I should probably tell you before you hear it from someone else…or - heaven forbid - deduce it. Mary is pregnant."

Holmes spat out his mouthful of brandy. Watson raised an eyebrow but refrained from comment, preferring to wait until Holmes's coughing fit had passed and he could speak again.

"Good God, _why?_" Holmes choked out when he was able.

Watson frowned.

"Well…because we wanted to make a family."

The wild-eyed glance he got in return to this comment told him that Holmes didn't have a clue what he was talking about.

"But that means - " started Holmes stupidly, then stopped himself and went pink. Watson watched him thoughtfully.

"That means…?"

"That means that you and _her_…" Holmes squirmed where he was standing. "I mean…to create a child…naturally, you and _her_…"

It was Watson's turn to go red this time, or at least his ears did.

"Well she's my _wife_, Holmes, what did you expect?"

Holmes remained silent, a pole-axed expression on his face. It was as if the thought that Watson and his wife had had sex had only just hit him. After six months of marriage as well…Watson felt his temper rise, as it only seemed to do in Holmes's presence these days.

"I don't see why it's such an astonishing revelation to you, Holmes," he snapped. "It's _natural_ for a man to…to do _that_ with his wife, it's _natural _for her to become pregnant, it's _natural_ for a man to raise a family and what is _not _natural, what has never been natural, is to do what you and I did eight months ago! You - the whole thing - was not _natural!_"

There was a shocked silence. Watson immediately clapped his hand over his mouth, as if to stop his words before they became even more poisonous. Every limb of Holmes's had stilled, his face impassive.

They stared at each other.

Watson slid his hand from his mouth.

"Holmes, I didn't…I didn't mean…"

"I think you should leave," Holmes said quietly.

Watson got to his feet, hands outstretched, as if he were expecting Holmes to attack him.

"Holmes, wait - "

"Now please!" Holmes snapped out, quick as a snake.

Watson paused. Holmes stood perfectly still, except for his hands, which were shaking on his brandy glass, tapping out nervous notes against its surface. They glared at each other, neither backing down. Then, finally, Watson looked away.

"Fine," he murmured, and took his cane and left, shutting the door as quietly as possible.

Holmes sank into the vacated sofa, feeling numb. It was the first - no, the _only_ time, really - that one of them had put what had happened between them into spoken words. Watson had found Mary almost immediately after the incident, and though Holmes had tried to keep him from leaving in a number of inventive ways, he had never questioned exactly _why _Watson wanted to get married. The answer - which Watson had just snapped out - would be easy for any simpleton to deduce.

And now Mary was pregnant. And now he was sure that this was the life Watson truly wanted, a _natural_ life, just like he had said. Now he could no longer pretend that Watson would come to his senses. It would never happen, Watson already had done. He wanted Mary, not Holmes. Holmes had been a mistake, just a dreadful mistake. And now Holmes would be left with the same vague and yet intensely arousing memories of that night, while Watson would move on, into a new sphere completely beyond Holmes's ken.

He wondered how long it would take before Watson forgot Holmes altogether.

He sat back in his sofa, following this morose thought, then winced as something tucked into the back of the sofa pressed into his back. He turned and retrieved the item - it was Watson's old coat, grey and lined in black in its inside. He must have forgotten it in his haste to leave.

Holmes examined the coat - he wanted to smell it, but was afraid it would no longer smell like Watson but instead like his new life, like Mary. Nevertheless, his infamous and insatiable curiosity soon got the better of him, and he gave the fabric a tentative sniff. The scent of Watson - that unmistakeable scent - filled him and lifted him instantly. How could he think that even Watson's new wife could eradicate that smell? It was engrained in Watson, it was as much a part of him as his hands or his face. Holmes lay back on the sofa and inhaled deeply, the smell bringing back older, happier memories - the first time he had smelled that scent on Watson's borrowed shirt, the warmth of the coat around his shoulders on that wintery day. Another evening spent together and the hundreds and hundreds upon that. Another sniff - he could feel himself drifting away - images of Watson, of him smiling, laughing, of him interested, enthralled, trusting. Emotion after emotion, gesture after gesture, it all flooded Holmes like a lullaby, soothing him gently into a deep sleep.

* * *

The next morning, Watson knocked at Holmes's door, to receive no answer. The man was probably sulking after their argument he thought, feeling guilty. Well, it was a cold winter day and, sulk or not, he was going to get back his damned coat.

He marched determinedly into the room.

"Holmes, have you seen my - "

All words died on his lips when he looked across to the sofa, to find Holmes cuddled up asleep under just his object of desire, a fistful of the fabric held close to his nose as if he had been smelling it before he fell asleep, his face peaceful in his slumber.

Watson paused irresolutely in the middle of the room, feeling even more guilty about his harsh words the previous night. He should never have said them, he should have just borne Holmes's lack of understanding with patience, like he usually did.

He realised, quite suddenly, why he had felt so angry - not because he was angry at Holmes, but because he was angry at himself. Running away was never the way to deal with something. He perhaps should have - he perhaps should have never - But he had done it now. He was married, and he had left Holmes alone. Would Holmes ever realise how difficult it had been for him, to leave Baker Street, to leave Holmes? He loved the time he spent with Holmes more than he loved anything else, even Mary, he admitted to himself with a fresh stab of guilt. Holmes had always made it clear just how much Watson meant to him, and Watson never had. This was not fair - on anyone.

He sighed and looked over at Holmes again, who was still sleeping as though nothing short of the house falling down around him would wake him up. He walked as silently as possible to where Holmes was lying, intending to take the coat from him without waking him, but when he took a cautious handful of the cloth, Holmes let out a murmur of protest and clutched at the coat more tightly, eyes still closed.

"Wa'…son…" he mumbled and his fingers tightened until they were white. Watson sighed and gave up his coat as lost.

He leant forward slightly instead, stroked back Holmes's hair, and then, in a fit of tenderness, pressed his lips just slightly against his forehead, brushing the roots of his hair with the edges of his moustache.

"Shh, Holmes," he whispered soothingly, and watched with pleasure as Holmes fell back into his deep reverie with a little sigh. If he remembered this, it would only be as a dream, the exact trick he had attempted to play on Watson that long ago time which Watson wished with all his heart that he could remember.

He stood back, watched Holmes for a bit, then remembered his other duties with regret. Tomorrow, he would come and apologise properly to Holmes, he determined as he left Baker Street. And he would make sure to let him know that however domestic became, however - yes, why not - however _natural_, he would never forget Holmes, _could_ never forget him, and would love him all his life.

He would have sacrificed a thousand items of clothing to ensure Holmes knew that.

The End

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**So, that's it! If you liked my work, please take the time to review, I seriously love every one I get! And do keep reading some of my other stuff if you liked this! I promise I will update them asap! Lots of love! x**


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